


The Outcast {1/1}

by eldritcher



Series: The Journal of Fingolfin [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Rated PG, for Mature themes. AU flirting with canon. A standalone.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:28:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cirdan isn't considered cool because of his beard. He angsts over it.  Luckily for him, the Noldor are back and Miriel's grandson shares her appreciation for his beard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Outcast {1/1}

  
__

**  
**“God help the outcasts,  
Hungry from birth,  
Show them the mercy  
they don't find on earth;  
God help the outcasts,  
Or nobody will.” 

****

 

Warning: Rated PG, for Mature themes. AU flirting with canon. A standalone.

×××

  
  


The Awakening,  
Cuiviénen.  
  “CÌRDAN !” A strong, deep voice reverberated in the caves. “Where are you?”

I cursed the boisterous summons and shouted back, “Finwë! I am working!”

I shook my head wearily, knowing well that his impatience would make him come within and drag me out to wherever he wished. He was a merry spirit and chafed at stagnation. Predictably, a hand began tugging at my shoulder insistently. I sighed and turned to face him. Sharply hewn aristocratic features had already made him quite popular amongst our race. The slender physique was made graceful by the generous height and innate fluidity of movement. The dark hair and coal-black eyes served to add to the enigma that was my friend.

“Yes?” I muttered irritably as he bounced on the balls of his feet. I could see that he was restraining his excitement with utmost difficulty. His eyes were glowing in the dark cave and his long fingers were agitatedly drawing shapes in the air.

“Come with me.” He dropped to his knees and rested his head on my shoulder. I rolled my eyes. The arrogant, self-assured creature knew that I could not say ‘no’ when he showered his affection on me.

“I am --” I began only to be cut off by warm fingers closing over my mouth.

“I know. You are working!” He made a noise of protest and continued hopefully, “But adding salt to our water supply so that you could float things on them can wait? I want to show you something.”

I inhaled deeply once before saying with the patience of a much-tried soul, “I add salt to this pond so that things float. And that helps me understand why things float. Have you ever thought that children could learn swimming easily that way?”

“No,” he said unabashedly, “Not everyone thinks, Cìrdan!”

I spared him a withering glare before nodding my assent to whatever dubious adventure he had in mind. He laughed delightedly and dragged me away.

I was a recluse. From the time we had woken on the banks of the Waters, the elves had been a close-knit race. Those who looked similar gravitated towards each other. There had been coupling and soon came offspring. But I remained a recluse. A strange growth on my face had made me an outcast from my own people. They viewed me with suspicion and fear. There were rumours that I was cursed. I was never approached by the other elves. I lived on the fringes of the community, scavenging and foraging to meet my needs. My only solace had been the strange restlessness that made me pine for water. I was at my happiest in waterbodies.

Finwë was a hunter and a leader. He served as the uncrowned ruler of the dark-haired clan of the elves. He was a kind soul. Our first meeting, he found me eating a hare without even skinning it. To his credit, he only blanched a little. Others would have run away at the sight of me with my teeth clamped over the hare’s ear, wrenching it into my mouth, the blood dripping down my chin onto my torso.

Finwë had taught me to gut animals, to catch fish and to make snares. He taught me the language of the elves and the songs they delighted in composing. Above all, he treated me as an equal.

×××

“What are you dreaming about?” Finwë complained as he tugged me towards his clan’s settlement.

“Nothing.” I lied as I smiled at him.

He was too intent on his own thoughts that he nodded absently and tugged me on. When we reached his hut, he beckoned me to enter first.

I obeyed and stepped within.

Like starlight shining on the waters she stood. Grace, beauty and perfection were embodied in her. Tall as the women of her clan were, slender and dark-haired. But it was her eyes that struck me the most; grey pools of compassion, wisdom and purity.

“Míriel,” Finwë stepped to her side and took her hand, “This is my beloved friend, Cìrdan.”

She smiled and came forward to take my hands in hers. I made some inane excuses about my palms being dirty. She waved them away and rose to her toes to press her lips to my jaw.

“I have looked forward to meeting Finwë’s dearest friend, My Lord Cìrdan.” It was she who called me a ‘lord’ for the very first time. From her lips, in her melodious voice, it sounded right.

“Míriel and I have decided to marry after an interesting wooing,” Finwë murmured as he looped his arm about her waist contentedly.

He did not have to speak those words. The fond glances that they shared and the chaste touching they indulged in told me as much.

“May your union be blessed ever.” It cost me much heartache to utter those words knowing well that I could never wish Finwë, my only friend, otherwise.

×××

I wished to stay away from Finwë’s clan after his union with Míriel. But Finwë would have none of it. He would drag me to his settlement and persuade me to stay with them. Míriel was always glad to see her husband’s friend and treated me with respect and love. When Finwë lead hunting parties, she would accompany me to the lakes and the ponds and silently watch my experiments. Their acceptance of the outcast bearded elf made the other clans less wary around me.

Then came Oromë. And the elves began their journey west.

×××

“Are you well?” Míriel asked me concernedly as I groaned and stretched my limbs.

We had been fishing all day; that is, I had been fishing all day. She had settled merrily on a rock and kept a one-sided conversation the whole time. Occasionally, she would dip her feet into the cold water and squeal in delight. Her ability to find joy in the simplest things life could offer never failed to awe me.

“Yes.” I pulled myself up and sat down beside her. “I am merely tired.”

She nodded and leant forward to run her fingers through my wet, dripping beard. I rolled my eyes at her childlike infatuation with my beard. She was the only person who dared to touch it. Even Finwë preferred to ignore it.

“It is so soft,” she whispered as she clasped her fingers over it.

“It is nothing but persistent. I cut it off, and it comes back with twice the thickness!” I complained unhappily, staring at the long beard that would always mark me an outcast.

“I like it.” She shrugged confidently. “I wish Finwë had one. I think he would look magnificent.”

I converted my splutter into a wracking cough, which again raised her insistent questions about my well-being.

×××

I was absent-mindedly watching the fish in the river. How could they hold their breath for so long when they stayed underwater? Doubtless, the little wing-like parts of their body had something to do it. If I could make one big enough, could I then stay underwater too?

“Water does not give up its secrets so easily, Mariner.” A familiar voice broke into my musings.

I turned to face Melian. She and I had an easy camaraderie. She understood what it meant to be an outsider for she was of a different race. Though I found her conversation too difficult to understand, I valued her serenity and wisdom. Since Finwë was increasingly burdened by the concerns of his clan, I could no longer spend time in his company. Míriel, I did not wish to seek her when she was alone. I enjoyed her company far too much and feared that Finwë would not approve of that.

“Mariner?” I asked confusedly as I offered Melian my arm.

“Yes.” She took my arm contentedly and we began walking along the riverbank. “Ulmo’s secrets are his own. But you will learn them in time. The grey depths of water shall give you succor from what ails you. Peace shall be yours on the shores of the sea until the stormclouds return.”

Not for the first time, I felt a twinge of sympathy for Elwe. How did he ever understand what his wife spoke?

×××

Finwë and his clan followed Oromë to the new land. I could not abandon the sea. It was Melian had said. Peace filled my soul as I stared at the waves lapping on the sands where I stood.

Before they left, Míriel sought me.

“I wish you would come with us.” Her voice was filled with quiet sadness. “I will never see you again.”

“No,” I said hastily, my right hand moved instinctively to cup her cheek, “I will follow you when I am ready. For now, the sea is my mistress.”

“It always shall be.” There was resignation colouring her tone. “Do Finwë and I mean so less to you that you would choose water above friendship?”

“No, Finwë and you matter the most. That is why I cannot come.” My words sounded hollow and stricken even to my own ears.

Her wise eyes held my gaze captive as if trying to see through to the very first thought I had. Then those grey pools widened and she raised her hand to her throat in a gesture of heavy emotion.

I could not see pity in her gaze. I could not bear that. I stepped forward and embraced her. She gripped my arms and buried her face in my beard. We stood silently for long moments, cocooned in the safety of that embrace.

Finally, I gathered enough will to push her away. She looked up at me, her eyes lustrous with unshed tears.

“May your life be blessed,” I whispered sincerely.

She smiled; a wistful smile that filled me with foreboding. She was right. I would never see her again.

“May I have a lock of your beard?” She had shed all sorrow and fear from her voice. Now it was as melodious and merry as it had been when I had first heard it.

×××

  


  
The 1st Age,  
Mereth Aderthad.

“Lord Cìrdan !” Finrod rushed to my side as I dismounted in the courtyard of Fingolfin.

I smiled at the prince and let him escort me into the castle. We had met during one of his journeys. I had been shocked when he related his ancestry to me. I could never believe that Finwë would marry again. And Míriel…I grieved at her self-chosen fate. Finwë should have honoured her sacrifice. Why had he married again? His callousness seemed to take its toll on his descendants, now driven into these lands with the wrath of the Valar pursuing them.

“My Lord Cìrdan !” An extremely handsome prince who resembled my old friend stepped forth, “I am Fingolfin, son of Finwë.”

“Honoured to meet you, Lord Fingolfin,” I said sincerely, my eyes greedily roving about his figure to seek traces of my first friend.

“I am told that I resemble him,” he said uncertainly, his black eyes uncomfortable with my scrutiny. “But my brother inherited our father’s charisma and will.”

I cleared my throat uneasily. I could well sense that it seemed to be a difficult subject for him and I had no wish to make him uncomfortable.

He smiled and shook his head saying, “There are portraits of my brother. But I must admit that none of them do adequate justice to the fire he embodied. Come now, Lord Cìrdan , let me show you to your chambers.”

Courteous as Finwë had always been, Fingolfin and his family used Sindarin whenever they were in the presence of guests. I got along well with them though there were times when it seemed they were all beasts straining at their leashes. Fingolfin assured me that the family was extremely close-knit despite the simmering tensions that erupted every now and then. It was quite incomprehensible to me how descendants of my easygoing friend could be so proud and fiery.

The day of the feast arrived. Fingolfin was beside himself with worry as he tried to keep his sons and nephews in line. This was a grand occasion for the Noldor. I had heard rumours of the ship burning and betrayal by Fëanor. Again, it was incomprehensible to me how the son of Finwë and Míriel could betray someone. This feast, Fingolfin hoped, would end the rifts in the family. Having spent some time in their company, I could only term his hopes optimistic.

I arrived at the feast late for I had stayed in my chambers staring at the portrait of Finwë that adorned the wall. He looked old and weary. I could well understand that if he had had to endure this family. Why did he remarry? The question haunted me relentlessly.

The great hall was well-lit and lavishly decorated. It seemed a far cry from those early days when Noldorin entertainment had consisted of a couple of songs by the fire. Minstrels, dancers and courtesans went about their trade in the big hall. I stayed on the sidelines watching amusedly as Fingolfin moved from one family member to another dousing arguments before they spiraled out of hand.

A boisterous cheer from the warriors of the Noldor caught the interest of everyone in the hall. I watched as Fingolfin’s eldest son drank from a goblet held to his lips by a taller noble.1 From the heady encouragement of the crowd it was clear that they were both highly popular. My eyebrows went up as I noticed the red hair of Fingon’s companion. Crimson tresses were as unique as beards in our race; I knew that he was Fëanor’s eldest.

My curiosity rose in me as I watched them dancing to the tunes of the minstrels. I had heard much of Maedhros Fëanorion. From my vantage point, I could see that he resembled Finwë too close for comfort except for the odd colour of his hair.

×××

“Maitimo,” Finrod dragged Maedhros to my side, “This is Lord Cìrdan, The Mariner.”

As my eyes met the steady, appraising gaze of Finwë’s eldest grandson, I gasped and stepped backward. Míriel’s eyes.

“My Lord?” Maedhros was asking me concernedly, “Are you well?”

“Indeed.” I managed to speak in my normal tones. “I was merely struck by the fact that your eyes are your grandmother’s legacy.”

He smiled and his handsome features relaxed into serenity. The grey eyes had lightened as they regarded me.

“Grandfather would always remark upon that.”

He pressed a goblet into my unresisting hands. His silken robes slid smoothly over my fingers as he escorted me to a less crowded part of the hall. I turned to examine him carefully. Apart from the striking resemblance to his grandparents, what stood out was his innate nobility. The fire in him was restrained by wisdom and compassion, traits of his grandmother.

“He would often tell me about you.” The grey eyes were still measuring me with a tinge of wariness.

“We were friends, your grandfather and I,” I assented cautiously. Something about his steady gaze unnerved me.

He nodded and leant against the wall, sipping his wine quietly. I watched him even as he watched the dancers. A smile softened his features as a golden-haired maiden passed us, safely ensconced in the arms of a starkly handsome figure distinguished by dark hair and eyes that contrasted with his pallor.

“My brother, Maglor and my cousin, Galadriel,” Maedhros explained when he noticed my gaze linger on them.  
  
I nodded quietly. He returned to his lazy contemplation of the dancers, a peaceful serenity cloaking his figure. The calm reminded me of Míriel once more.

“Why did he remarry?”

I could have bitten off my tongue the instant after the unruly organ had voiced that burning question. I turned hastily to apologize for the intrusive question. But Maedhros was now regarding me with mild amusement.

“I had been wondering if you would ever ask me that question tonight,” he admitted easily, his grey eyes sparkling with an indiscernible emotion.

I did not reply. To know that he had expected me to ask was alarming. What else did he know? Who else knew of this? Questions churned in my mind.

“I was close to my grandfather in a way that none of his children were,” he said thoughtfully, staring into his goblet as if seeking answers in the depths of the rich, red wine.

“I did not mean to intrude on what is essentially a private matter. Finwë was my friend. I held Míriel in high regard too. Love as theirs, I thought, would withstand time.” I cleared my throat again and let my gaze wander to the dance floor.

“It does. Míriel loved him deeply. And he loved only her,” Maedhros said quietly, his words ringing with conviction.

“Then why?” I asked again, defiantly meeting his calm eyes.

“I believe that time was not a factor. Their love was pure and hallowed. It remains so. He married Indis in a spate of jealousy and regretted it ever after.”

“WHAT?” I hissed, frightening the young couple who had been indulging in passionate intimacies to my left. They left hurriedly, shooting me dark glances.

Maedhros raised an amused eyebrow before pouring half the contents of his goblet into my empty one. He remained silent until I had calmed down and taken a sip of the heady wine.

“Míriel held a token of love from a much cherished friend who had not accompanied her to Valinor. A lock of hair.” His gaze travelled to my long beard and I fidgeted uncomfortably. “I am not sure of what happened,” his eyes had lost all amusement and were now filled with quiet regret and sympathy, “and I never asked my grandfather. As far as I know, there were no accusations. He loved her too deeply and she had never loved any in the manner she loved him. But she refused to relinquish that lock of hair. Silence may sometimes bear down heavier than harsh words. She let go of her life after my father’s birth. She wished to set grandfather free to love again. Perhaps she regretted that the lock of hair had caused her husband to doubt her. Grandfather married more of spite than anything else. That she had chosen an eternity in Mandos broke him. It made him think that he was not worthy of a second chance with her. But he loved her. He loved the son they had made.”

“He must have hated me,” I said miserably, trying not to collapse under the heavy weight of revelation.

“He spoke highly of you.” Maedhros stooped to set his goblet on a side table and then clasped my right hand, “and he held that lock of hair close to him. Indeed,” his grey eyes clouded over, “he had been telling me about you that night.”

My insides clenched as I understood his oblique reference to the night when Melkor had slain my friend. But more than righteous wrath, I was burdened with guilt and fear. What if my regard for Míriel had caused her death? And all that had ensued?

Maedhros’s hand gripped mine reassuringly as he spoke earnestly, “I believe that my father’s birth drained her will.”

The lack of accusations in his grey eyes calmed me down and I let myself be persuaded to extend my stay.

×××

Mereth Aderthad had ignited something deep within me. Maedhros and I had built a friendship that I was sure would last. Over time, he began confiding in me. I grieved for all that their family had gone through. And I grieved more knowing well that it was merely the beginning of their troubles.

×××

A sense of purpose once more crept into my soul. I would aid their cause as much as I could. As each bastion of the Noldor fell, I would take the survivors into my fold. ‘The Succor of The House of Finwë’, I was called. Thus I raised Ereinion and Gildor Inglorion. The kinslayers always would have a home under my roof.

×××

  


  
Shortly before The War of The Wrath,  
1st Age.

Maedhros had been watching the sun descend into the calm sea. I stepped forth to my companion’s side and turned to watch the expressive features. The grey eyes had turned west, darkening in wistful longing. I knew that I would not see my friend again. The grief of parting killed my restraint and I raised my fingers to brush away the red tangles that crowned Maedhros. Against my white palms, the hair shone like blood.

“I wish you would find peace.” Maedhros turned to face me.

I did not let go of his hair and continued weighing the locks in my hand quietly. Peace? What peace would I find when I knew well that I had a part in his fate? In all their deaths and sorrows?

He sighed and embraced me, his hand gripping me close. I inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scent pervade my senses. His hair, as unruly as it always had been, tickled my neck and sides. I wrapped my arms around his torso and closed my eyes. It was the only time we had embraced. His reluctance to allow physical contact and my discomfort around people had always ensured that we had an understanding.

“Dare I ask a lock of your hair?” I asked quietly as he withdrew and turned away to watch the sunset.

×××

  
The End of The 3rd Age,  
Mithlond.

Galadriel walked into my study. I turned to admire the austere, proud figure that had crafted our victory over Sauron. In her I could barely see traces of the golden-haired maiden who had danced without a care in the arms of her beloved cousin during Mereth Aderthad.

Lazily, she walked over to the mantel and began clearing the mess of correspondence that I had piled up there. I settled by the window, watching her fluid movements with languid ease. A gasp alerted me.

In her trembling hands, she held a lock of crimson hair. Harshly, I commanded her to replace it. Recognition and realization flared in her clear gaze as she looked up at me in horror.

“I did not know”, she said brokenly.

“I did not aid you because of my personal regard for your fallen cousin,” I said sharply. “Leave it be, Galadriel.”

I aided her cause because of reasons that she would ever know. I have loved twice. And nobody would know who the first had been. The second, many knew or guessed at.

“You aided me since you believed in my cause,” she said resolutely as she came around the large desk that separated us. I withdrew further to the isolation of the window.

She bowed to me and said quietly, “My Lord Cìrdan , I am sorry. If I had known, I would never have intruded.”

I did not reply as she left. I turned to gaze at the waves. The ship that would carry us west was ready. It was time to sail. I would journey to the lands where Míriel had died. My fingers closed around the red lock of hair. He had longed to see his native land. A part of him, I could carry there.

Perhaps Melian had been right all along. The only love of mine that could prosper was my pining for the sea. I was different. I was meant never to love my own kind. Those who had tried to reach out to me were doomed.

My hands clenched my beard bitterly. The outcast.

×××

**References:**  
The Song of Sunset The Third Age: Chapters [53](http://j-dav.livejournal.com/51834.html) and [68](http://j-dav.livejournal.com/72098.html).  
The Journal of Fingolfin: Chapter [9](http://j-dav.livejournal.com/50921.html)  
The Journal of Maglor: Chapter [11](http://j-dav.livejournal.com/82543.html)  
[The Basic Principle](http://j-dav.livejournal.com/79710.html)  
[A Song By The Sea](http://j-dav.livejournal.com/tag/a+song+by+the+sea)

The lines quoted are from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.


End file.
